


Aftermath

by 19x99



Category: Dragon's Dogma
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 05:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21113597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/19x99/pseuds/19x99
Summary: I drifted in and out of consciousness. There were no dreams. Another aspect of my humanity stolen from me, forcibly traded away for the damned title of “Arisen”. A poetic irony; my revered enlightenment as “Savior” left me an abomination – human by looks alone.Maximilian tends to the Arisen after their stay in the dungeon.





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first post on here, so be gentle. I've been writing this off and on for about 5 years, never quite liking how it came out. But now it's done. Sorry if my Arisen lore is a little off, its been a few years since I played through the game, and I can't remember all of the canon.

I woke up in an unfamiliar room. As I sat up, I noticed that I was nearly naked, most of my clothes removed to bandage my wounds. Letting the sheets slowly slide down my chest, I scanned the room, trying to figure out where I was.

It was a small space, the bed sat in the middle of the room. A small, plain table sat on the left side of the bed, a simple wooden desk to my right. It was covered and stuffed with countless documents and scrolls. Further left of the bedside table, a tall, slim dresser sat against the wall. Next to it, a round dark wood table and a lone chair. Its surface was occupied by three milky white candles, a large bowl, and a crumpled bundle of clothing and armor, dark and heavy with still drying blood.

_ Must be mine_, I concluded, as beside the bowl there were various bandages and other medical supplies.

The last item of interest in the room, besides the window behind me was a railed off stairway. Directly in front of me, it led down. How far or to what, I didn’t know. And for now, I didn’t care.

I laid back down and closed my eyes. Above me, a cool morning breeze blew softly into the room, fluttering the faded drapes framing the window. The fresh, clean sheets felt cool against my bare skin. Their nostalgic scent of the ocean reminded me of home.

I listened as the city outside began to arise. The gentle clink of armor intermingled with the muted murmur of various early morning greetings and small talk. The deep echo of the church’s bells; six long unbroken tones resonated through the air, signaling the day’s start.

Laying there, I wondered how severely I’d been injured. Sure, I was sore, but it was more the stiffness I’d associate with lying in bed too long rather than the pain of having been beaten all night. Though, pain was more and more becoming an insignificant, near unrecognizable sensation. 

Be it shallow or deep, stab or cut, hot or cold, everything was becoming duller.

The force or pressure of the blows was the most I felt, occasionally accompanied by a deep, dull ache. More than once, my body had collapsed due to blood loss or some other trauma. I simply didn’t notice. Nothing told my body to stop.

This same desensitization held true for emotions. I felt nothing; joy, sorrow, or anything in between. I remember feeling them before becoming Arisen, and I had no trouble recognizing them in others. But the essence, my heart, eluded me.

I lay in thought a while longer before finally dozing off. I had completely forgotten the question of where I was. Come what may, friend or enemy, it hardly mattered. Only the Dragon could kill me now. Everything else was just in the way.

I drifted in and out of consciousness. There were no dreams. Another aspect of my humanity stolen from me, forcibly traded away for the damned title of “Arisen”. A poetic irony; my revered enlightenment as “Savior” left me an abomination – human by looks alone.

I was awoken by the sound of someone to my left side, followed by the feel of gentle fingers run across my skin. My reaction came quick and reflexively. I waited for my assumed captor to touch me once more. I needed to time my assault just right. As the unknown reached across me for my right shoulder, I grabbed their vulnerable arm and yanked it down, then twisted it behind their back, pinning them to the bed beneath me as I swung my body up and around to straddle them from behind in the same, swift motion. They cried out, first in surprise, then in pain as I tightened my grip around their arm and wretched it upwards further than it naturally bent.

“Arisen!” The person called out; voice muffled from the bed sheets surrounding their face. “It’s me! It’s Maximilian. Remember?”

My grip softened slightly at the declaration as memories flooded through my mind, reminding me of who the man was and all the time we had spent together. On the surface, Maximilian was the captain of the Duke’s guard. He was responsible for the hiring, training, and overall coordination of Gran Soren’s guards. He was also responsible for maintaining the city’s peace and handling its day to day operations. But that was merely his job, on display for everyone else. To me, he was one of only a handful of people who didn’t blatantly want something from me, smiling through their disgust of me, using me as only a means to an end. He had been the only one that had taken the time to explain what was expected of me; what I should and should not say, and how I was expected to act in the callous and decadent world of the Gran Soren elite.

One memory stands out clearly from the rest. When everyone else turned their eyes away from me in fear or disgust, he looked directly at me and smiled. And not just the empty lip service and sneers which had become my daily norm, but he faced me with all the genuineness and compassion he would anyone else. He made me feel human.

I loosened my grip, releasing him once I’d realized. I slid off his back, falling softly to the sheets beside him, my body collapsing from exhaustion.

“Arisen!” concern laced his voice as he rushed to my aid. Carefully, as if I were made of glass, he restored me to me original recline. His eyes frantically scanned my body, checking to see if any of his stitch work had been torn or reopened.

“Do you feel alright? Does anything hurt?”

I shook my head no. As far as I was concerned, nothing seemed amiss.

He sighed, relieved, then kindly smiled as he brought his gaze up to meet my own.

“Seems you’re feeling better, I suppose.”

He massaged his left shoulder, rolling the joint slowly as he stretched his neck. He winced. “Maybe a little too good. I’ll be feeling this one for a good while.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, more out of reflex than sincerity, because it seemed the correct response.

“Oh no, no, think nothing of it,” he responded hastily, a faint panic in his voice. He meant to reassure me; to absolve me of any responsibility or guilt over hurting him. “Only a few bruises. So please do not worry about it.”

He seemed expected a response to his placation; his release from my perceived remorse.

I gave him a quick nod of affirmation. “Alright,” I turned away, finding no point in retaining his stare.

He returned my nod with more emphasis. “Good.”

Abruptly, he stood and crossed the room, retrieved a weathered leather satchel and a wooden chair. Placing the chair beside me, he sat down, rummaging through the pack.

“Where am I?” I asked, “How long have I been unconscious?”

Pulling a small pouch from the satchel, full of what seemed to be medicine, he replied.

“This is my room in the guard’s barracks. I carried you here after finding you unconscious in front of the duke’s keep.” Setting aside the salve, he removed a bundle of fresh linen to be used as dressing for my wounds. “When I first found you,” he began, adjusting his supplies as he spoke, “I feared you were dead.” He beckoned for me to move closer so he could assess my injuries. I complied.

He smiled again, gingerly taking my left arm and unwrapping the bandage that coiled from my shoulder down my arm to the elbow.

“You had me quite scared.” The gauze came away from my skin with surprisingly little resistance. Relief spread across his face, examining the near completely healed wound. “But I suppose it requires much more to silence the Arisen than a mere beast hunt.”

I reflected on the events that had led to my being injured. Past experiences told me the correct response was most likely anxiety over the ordeal I had gone through, but I felt no such reaction. Quite the contrary, I found it a learning experience. The prison guard’s cruel dealings with me helped me to discover new ways to protect myself in future, similar encounters.

However, part of me apparently had other feelings toward what had happened.

“Stop!” interrupting Maximilian’s work as I violently jerked my arm away from his touch, and in doing so, tumbling off the opposite side of the bed to the cold, stone floor.

“Arisen!” he hurtled the bed and knelt beside me. “Are you alright?” He quickly evaluated me, focusing primarily on a deep gash to my upper thigh. Wordlessly, he applied pressure to stop the now rather profuse bleeding, then gestured to me with a nod towards the wadded towel pressed firmly against my wound.

“Please hold this.”

I complied without thinking. With freed hands, he swiftly tied a tourniquet tight around my leg above the cut, slowing my blood’s rapid retreat.

“Alright, wait here a moment,” he said before standing up. Stepping quickly, he circled the bed, grabbed his satchel, and returned. Retrieving a suture and thread, he wiped away as much of the excess blood as possible, before giving me a supportive nod and smile. 

“Just hold still. I’ll try to make this quick, so please try to bear with the pain.” With that, he skillfully re-stitched the wound closed. He’d obviously done this type of work countless times before, so his fingers worked dexterously, unhesitating, through the viscous, half clotted blood and flesh. 

Once finished, a bandage was wrapped around my leg, and I was gingerly lifted from the floor, then replaced onto the soft, white sheets of the bed.

“Try not to move so suddenly,” He said kindly, adjusting the dressings on my leg as he wiped away any excess blood remaining on my skin with a damp cloth. “Even with your affinity for healing, you were still quite badly wounded when I found you.” His expression darkened as he stared intently at the muted red stain growing slowly beneath the white gauze around my thigh. Hesitantly, he asked,” What manner of beast did this to you?” 

The memories flashed through my mind. I was at a loss for the reason I’d reacted to his touch so violently. In my silence, he’d moved his stare up towards my puzzled face, waiting for an explanation. He deserved one, both for what he’d done for me now and for what he had been doing for me ever since I arrived in this gods forsaken city; my only friend. 

“Hey,” anxiety laced his voice, “Tell me what’s wrong.” His hand extended out, just barely ghosting the skin of my cheek. “What happened to you?”

I slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch me!" The words came as a flood from deep inside, their tone foreign to me. They sounded vulnerable, terrified. But the voice was mine.

There was something else, something warm trailing down my cheeks. Assuming it was blood, I dismissively wiped it away. But when I looked, expecting to see red, I was surprised that the liquid was clear.

_Tears?_ The word reverberated through my head. Its meaning challenging everything my logical mind perceived about itself. I'm … crying? Why? I didn't believe I felt sad, as far as I remembered how sadness felt. And for that matter, why had I slapped Maximilian's hand away? Why did I continue to insist he not touch me? I hadn't ever been averse to his touch before, judging from the brief moments of contact we had in the past. And even now, the thought of his touch did not repulse me. So, what was causing the reaction? I glanced back a Maximilian, hoping to find some sort of rational explanation in him. However, I only found the same soft gaze he'd given me since I'd known him, waiting patiently for me to gather myself and answer.

"I… I…" my words frustratingly stuck as I tried to sift through the mess of thoughts.

"Take your time," he said, "I'm not going anywhere."

I sat silent for a few moments, strangely reassured by his care before taking a deep, calming breath and continuing.

"I wasn't injured by beasts," I paused. "No, that's not true, I was not attacked by the typical kind. It was the keep guards, in the dungeon." I may have lost part of what made me human, but that only made me that much more intimate with that same lacking in others. What had happened to me went far beyond discipline, it was blatant cruelty and sadism. The men had enjoyed it.

A serious look darkened his face. “The guard? Why in…? Why were you in the dungeons to begin with? Why would they… How could…” he broke off, thoughts obviously racing. He took a slow, deep breath to steady himself, then chose to simplify his torrent of questions down to one. “What happened?”

I relayed the events of why I was there, what had transpired between the Duchess and I, as well as the guard’s abuses.

Pain. Actual pain, unfiltered by the numbness that plagued my recent existence. I remember that most clearly. My nervous system screamed beneath their hands’, flesh tearing, bones cracking. These men brought the full force of their brutality down upon me. I suffered their torment; a release for pent-up urges and frustrations, a mere plaything. But their violence went far beyond that of simple loyalty to the duke and his new wife. It was about submission.

My body begged for it to stop; for salvation through my actions. But these cries fell on deaf ears. I took each and every one of their rageful blows. Every punch, every kick, every depraved, degrading, mindless torture, I accepted. I did not fight. I did not struggle. The god my body prayed to was dead.

The room was silent as I finished. Maximilian massaged the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. I was unsure, however, if he did so out of disbelief or regret. All the guardsmen reported to him. They were his men, his responsibility, his fault, a peasant from some backwater village had the gall to accuse those very men he had handpicked of assaulting me. Most wouldn’t even call what I had experienced wrong. The fact they left me alive was a favor. 

He stood, brow lowered, fists clenched tight, and moved slowly towards the wall behind him, stopping just short of it. I braced myself, either he would laugh at the absurdity of my tale or begin yelling in anger from the sear audacity of it. 

He remained motionless, however, silently staring at the cold stone before him. I heard his breaths, shallow and quick. Then, without warning, the emotions he’d been struggling to control exploded from him. His fist collided with the aged rock, producing a horrible, audible crack. 

_ He’s just broken his hand. _

But he wasn’t done. He repeated the motion, beating his fist into the same spot, faster, harder. Breathless curses kept time with each blow. I counted nine hits before he stopped, his final punch echoing through the tiny room.

He stood awhile; not moving as small drops of blood streamed down the stone in front of him. 

_His hand needed tending to._

I thought I was just being practical. He was a soldier. His hands, especially his sword hand, were his life. But truthfully, I didn’t want the one person I cared anything about to lose their job, their title, their power, their means of survival. 

“Maximilian … your hand … “

“What of my gods-damned hand?”

His voice cracked with anger. I watched helplessly as he clenched his fist tighter, grinding it further into the rock. Fresh blood oozed out and around it. It welled into fat drops at his wrist before falling to the floor, creating a growing pool between his feet.

“It is injured,” I continued, confused, but otherwise unfazed by his reply. “It needs tending to quickly if you ever hope to wield a blade again.” 

He slowly turned away from the wall and returned to his place beside the bed and looked down at me, before falling to his knees. He gripped my hands in his using both hands, a feat that did not come without considerable pain, I imagined. But he ignored it. He barely seemed to notice, as new blood covered his hands and mine before dripping onto the white sheets below.

“How can you think of me after you’ve suffered so?”

I was taken aback. Suffered? Had I? I thought of the ordeal as constructive if anything. It taught me ways to guard areas of my body otherwise neglected. It had been a good thing, hadn’t it?

“I beg pardon, but I don’t … “

“Don’t apologize,” he broke in, face strained with emotion before sitting beside me and unhesitatingly pulling me into his arms. He encircled me in a light embrace, taking care to restrain himself. I listened to his heartbeat; my left ear pushed against his chest. It was strangely comforting. This is the closest I had been to anyone since becoming Arisen. 

“Please don’t make me listen to you apologize,” his voice heavy with unshed tears. “There is no fault of yours that requires any pardon, least of all from me. This is my burden; I hired those men. And what’s worse, I knew how they treated those in the dungeon.” He paused, tightening his grip on the nape of my neck, pulling me closer. “It's just never mattered until now. Knowing that my negligence; knowing that I hurt you. I …" he stopped, seeming unable to find the words he wanted, so he concluded softly, “I cannot even begin to beg your forgiveness.”

Silence fell as he held me there. I was unsure if it was for my sake or his own. But whoever this was for, there we sat, his arms around me. I made no move to reciprocate, nor deny him. I remained still, letting him use me for whatever comfort he received from holding me. 

Eventually he pulled away, revealing the remnants of a thin stream of tears which traced the curves of his cheeks. He quickly turned from me, wiping away the last traces of them. 

Shifting my attention, I focused on his still injured hand. The supplies he’d used to bandage my leg still sat on the table beside the bed, and luckily within my limited range. Reaching, I retrieved them before seizing his wrist, pulling it to where I could dress it properly. 

“No, wait, you do not have to do that,” he panicked, realizing what I was intent on doing. “I will have one of the pages help me with it later.”

I looked up from my self-appointed task, meeting his troubled stare, now only inches away from my own.

“But it needs to be treated, else you may lose the use of it.” I paused. There was more to it. “And, I want to. You’ve done so much for me, let me do this one thing as repayment.”

His face quickly turned a bright shade of red as he looked away, bringing his good hand up to cover his mouth.

“I …," he stammered, unable to find the words to respond. “Fine,” he choked out with no small amount of effort. “But please be careful not to overtax yourself. You are still injured. I mean, you really shouldn’t even be awake yet.”

I resumed wordlessly, confused by his flustered response. Gently as I could manage, I first cleaned his hand. Examining it, the wound was not half as horrible as it had looked or sounded. The skin had been broken clean through to the bone around his knuckles, but that appeared to be the worst of it. I asked him to try flexing it to assess if there had been any motor damage. He did so, slowly, and not without pain, but managed to completely open and close his hand without any major issue. Wrapping it tightly in cloth, I returned the hand to him, asking if the bandage felt alright or if it needed any adjustments. 

“No,” he shook his head slightly, rotating his wrist to gauge to full range of movement allowed, “it feels fine. Thank-you.” He looked back at me, then down to his hand again, mumbling something unintelligible before shaking his head. 

“Hey, you must be starving,” abruptly changing the subject and the room’s overall tone, “Do you want something to eat?”

At the mention of food, my stomach growled loudly, as if on cue. Though it was not an unwelcome outburst. As he had said, I was starving. I enthusiastically nodded my head, shifting my body to leave the bed and follow him to food.

“Hold on,” he exclaimed, jumping to replace me in the bed, “I will bring you something, so please rest.”

He left the room. Alone, I laid back, closing my eyes. I listened out the open window to the comings and goings below. It was mid-morning now, and the town outside teemed with everyday life. Merchants cried out, hocking their wares to everyone within earshot. Busy housewives chirped and chattered as they tended to their chores. Children laughed, dashing after one another in their never-ending game of chase. It was ordinary, mundane. It was life. The monotonous day to day living that was always taken for granted. 

Awhile later, Maximilian returned, holding a bowl of stew, a half loaf of bread, and a mug of ale. He moved to set the food before me, but I greedily snatched the bowl away from him. Immediately, I began to shovel the piping hot stew into my mouth, not chewing or tasting. 

“Hold on,” he said as I made a grab for the bread he was still holding, “Slow down please. You are going to hurt yourself if you keep doing that. Please, at least chew.”

I ignored him, succeeding in taking the bread from him, stuffing nearly half of it into my mouth.

He sighed, “Please be careful.” He set the mug down on the table beside me, “At the rate you are going, you’re apt to choke yourself.”

I struggled to swallow my most recent mouth full. “Wouldn't matter,” I retrieved the ale mug and gulped down half of it, “I cannot die.” 

“So, what they say of the Arisen is true then? You really cannot be slain?”

I shook my head absently, hardly aware of his words, and even less interested.

“No, come fire or sword, I cannot die.”

Silence fell, with me stuffing my face unabashedly, him sitting adjacent, stealing small glances at me in between staring out the window. 

After refilling my bowl for the third time, he finally spoke.

“What is it like?” he began, returning my bowl, “Immortality, that is.”

I stopped eating. What’s it like? I’d never considered it before. What was it like? 

After a long while, I replied.

“Cold,” I muttered, “this forever has been very cold.”

Silence again.

“Is it also true what they say, that only the Arisen can slay the Dragon?” He once more brought an end to the quiet between us.

I nodded. “We are bound, I to Him, and Him to me. Only His death can free me.”

“Free you?”

I set my food aside, satisfied for the time being. And besides, Maximilian’s line of questioning spoiled any appetite remaining.

“From this eternal hell.”

He sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t speak so. Surely this life is not so terrible for you to wish an end to it,” he smiled hesitatingly. “You’re the Arisen; a hero, our savior from the Dragon.”

I sat a long time, waiting for words to answer with. How could I ever convey the feeling of not feeling? 

“My existence now is neither good nor bad. But it is hollow. I feel nothing. Not wind, not pain, neither joy nor sorrow. Save for hunger, there is nothing but memories of what I once was, and what I once had,” I looked him in the eyes. “I have lost my humanity, yet I cannot grieve it nor be angered into seeking revenge for its loss. I am a shadow, unable to die, but equally unable to live. It was a curse the Dragon laid upon me, not a gift or something to dreamt of. I am no hero. What I do is not for the people. I act solely to save myself. This world and the fate of its people mean nothing to me. All that matters is the Dragon.” I closed my eyes, “I am Arisen, and I am damned.”

I stopped, having said more than I intended.

“But our Duke faced the Dragon as Arisen and now lives comfortably,” Maximilian retorted, “Can you not hope for the same after the conclusion of your trial?”

I sighed. “It does not matter whether I challenge the Dragon and perish, for then I am free. What troubles me is if I face the Dragon and live.”

“Why would that be a problem?” he asked perplexed, “for if is as you say, your humanity would be restored. You could start anew and live as any free man or woman does.” He ended with a cheerful smile.

“Could I?” I answered sharply. “Can one truly live in peace after facing the everlasting? Will I forget once knowing immortality? Will I simply move on? How could I live as before, blind to the world around me?” I looked down at my hands, bandaged and broken. “How could I ignore all I’ve done?”

He sat down beside me on the bed.

“You carry far too much on your shoulders. Is not the burden of the Dragon enough? Must you also worry about what could be?” He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close. “Would that I could alleviate your burdens, but I’ve not the wisdom, nor the strength needed to fight in your place. I have no words to offer which might comfort you, save for a blind optimism and assurance that you will prevail.” He squeezed me closer to him, “I believe you will win and return to what you once were.”

He paused. “And as to whether you still maintain your humanity, I have my doubts.” Gently grasping my chin, he pulled my face towards his. Our lips met softly. Holding me there, a sensation of heat filled me. First my lips, then my cheeks, and finally my whole body, spreading through every part of me. He pulled away and smiled.

“Did you feel anything?”

I looked away; embarrassment hot on my face.

“Yes,” I nodded, “somehow, I think I did.”

END 


End file.
